


Sanctionary

by agent_florida



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Self Harm, self injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-24
Updated: 2011-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:12:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1322767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/agent_florida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't a job for the faint of heart. Maine and Sigma are the blackest of the black ops, and with that comes some violent tasks. But Sigma's just a kid. Maine's the one that's given him sanction, but he's also the one he goes to for sanctuary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanctionary

**Author's Note:**

> Meant as a teaser.
> 
> This is the closest thing to a reCaptcha Sigma can find. He needs to prove to himself that he's human. That he's real.

Knife. Sigma needed a knife.  
  
He’d given Delta all his sharps before grad day. Seemed like a good idea at the time. But the room was closing in on him now. He was watching his hands move without telling them what to do. And the things they’d done…  
  
He tried scratching at his arms. Dug at the skin at his wrists with his nails. Didn’t work. Wasn’t sharp enough. Knife. Needed a knife. Or glass. Glass would work. Itch had to be cut out or he was going to go crazy.  
  
Compulsion. That’s what they called it. Fascinating enough on its own, but the sheer relief it gave him afterwards… Panting breaths, hammering heartbeat, he was going to die, he knew it, unless he found something with an edge.  
  
Maine’s equipment. Scattered like it always was. Had to be something in here. His hands were shaking, his palms sweaty, and he didn’t care how much of a mess he was making, because none of it was real, it was all a dream, a nightmare, and he had to wake up, had to wake up, had to –  
  
There. Long motherfucker of a blade. Felt good in his hand. Heavy. Balanced. Shiny. Couldn’t wait to test it on the pad of his thumb – not enough time, he couldn’t get air, going to choke to death unless he could remember how to breathe.  
  
Slash. Ribbon of blood against the dark skin of his forearm. Heavy whump when he sat on his bed at the sight of it. Still numb. But alive. Real. Slash, slash, slash. Watching himself do this from far away, feeling that urgency, the sense that he couldn’t stop once he’d started. Wanted to live, not to die. Live, damn it. Live. Little muttered words between each slash that even he didn’t understand – was he crazy? Speaking in tongues?  
  
A different voice. Not real. In his head. And then all too real when a force he didn’t understand yanked his head back to look into the face of a very disturbed Maine. “Sig, look at me. Put it down. Put it down, Sig. Give it back. C’mon.”  
  
Only clutched on harder. “No.”  
  
“Sigma, come on – oh my God.” Wide eyes. Clammy face. Looked like he was about to be sick. “What did you do?”  
  
“It wasn’t real.” Screamed through a hoarse throat. “None of it real. Had to be sure. Had to make it real again.”  
  
“By  _cutting yourself?_ ” Maine was stronger; when he wrestled Sig for the knife, it was better to give up. “You can’t just –”  
  
“Look.” Shallow cuts, all of them, but the blood dripped from his arm when he held it up. “Blood. I’m alive. Had to check. Easier for you – pale skin, blue veins. Can’t see under my skin. Have to pull it out. Lay it open.”  
  
“But  _why?_ ” Dumb question. Begging for answers Sig didn’t have. “Why hurt yourself?”  
  
“Doesn’t hurt.” Lies – stinging as his breath evened out, heart rate slowed, imminent doom crawling back to wherever it had come from. Correction: “Didn’t.”  
  
Tight low voice trying to be caring but with a demand underneath. “I need to know why.”  
  
“Sounds stupid.” Mumble, cradling his injured arm to himself. Burning that flared into raw agony and left him clenching his teeth.  
  
And then Maine touched him. His hand was large, but he reached up to cradle the side of Sigma’s face and smooth a thumb over his cheek, below his eyes. “I’m here,” he whispered, squatting down in front of him to get at eye level. “I’ll listen.”  
  
It was so gentle. Sigma almost couldn’t believe it. The same hands that could dole out pain and death were choosing instead to gift him with a soothing caress. “Nothing…” he started, unsure where he was going. “Felt real. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Panicked. Needed to feel. Needed to see. Needed to know it wasn’t just in my head.”  
  
“Sigma…” His voice was heavy with compassion. He sat next to Sigma on the bed, put an arm around his shoulders, pulled his knees onto his lap. Sigma’s ear was right up against his heartbeat, and he put a palm there, marveling. This was real. Too real. “If you have a panic attack again,” Maine murmured, petting his hair, “you need to let me know. I can talk you through it. You don’t have to do this.”  
  
“But it wasn’t real,” Sigma insisted. His throat closed in a sob. He’d let Maine down. Again.  
  
“Shh. Look at me.” Sigma tipped his chin up as Maine leaned him back; his dark brown eyes were sparkling warm. “Can I tell you a secret?”  
  
“What?” Sigma fisted the fabric stretched over Maine’s chest.  
  
“Just because it’s ‘all in your head’…” Maine kissed him on the forehead. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”  
  
All the sensation… Maine had to know how much he was helping Sigma recover. Every kind touch brought him further out of his self-destructive headspace. “Sorry,” he mumbled against Maine’s shoulder.  
  
“Shh,” Maine soothed him. “Just – don’t do this again. You scared me. And you made an unholy mess.”  
  
Shift of gravity, pressure around his shoulders and under his knees – when Sigma opened his eyes, he was further off the floor than he should have been. “What’re you doing?”  
  
“Taking you to med bay. I can’t patch you up here.”  
  
“Lemme go.” When Maine didn’t, Sigma slammed the heel of his hand against Maine’s sternum. “Don’t want you to come.”  
  
“I’m taking you whether you want to go or not.”  
  
But he had to let go of Sigma’s knees to get the doorknob, and so he took his chance to get both feet on the floor. “I’m going,” he said. “You’re not. My problem. My responsibility. My consequences.”  
  
Maine sighed. Sigma caught him rolling his eyes slightly. “Sigma, we’re partners now. Your problems are my problems.  _Our_  problems.”  
  
“Shouldn’t have to deal with this,” Sigma muttered.  
  
“I choose to.” Maine ignored the door, pulling Sigma close to him and embracing him with those huge, strong arms. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone.”  
  
Nine words. That was all it took for him to lose the tight grip he had on his anguish. It spilled out of him like water from a knocked-over drinking glass, flooding his mind and damaging the information he’d filed away, stains seeping through the edges of the papers and making the inks a muddy blur. All he could see was the black fabric of Maine’s shirt when he buried his face in it and sobbed.


End file.
